Core
by Sadie Flood
Summary: Sam and Amy have a discussion.


AN: Sam. Boy, I don't know. I have no idea where this came from, or if it will be annoyingly confusing for anyone who doesn't have the unique pleasure of living inside my mind. Anyway, I don't own anything. 

It's 1:15. He barely acknowledges her when she walks in. Inwardly he's surprised her arrival is unannounced, either by a preliminary phone call or by his apparently not-so-intrepid secretary. He does not let this show. He keeps typing like the door hasn't open and shut and she isn't standing in his office. He finishes his sentence and looks up, finally. She's waiting patiently. He expected her to talk first, but it looks like it will be up to him to break the silence.  
  
"You just found out," he says. It isn't a question.  
  
She stares at him blankly. He thinks this blank look she's perfected is a strategy to make it seem like she doesn't know as much as she does, so that just when you've decided she doesn't know anything, she can hit you with what she does know. And then sometimes she'll get another look in her eye that says she knows everything about everything, and she definitely has your number.   
  
As if to drive this particular point home, she says, "I've got your number."  
  
He plays along. "Six."  
  
"Times you've been together," she guesses.  
  
"Other women."  
  
"Yours?"  
  
"His."  
  
"Five."  
  
"You. Three."  
  
"Times he's said 'I love you.'" Another guess.  
  
"Times you picked up the phone and I hung up."  
  
"Two." She just tosses that one out there. He wonders if he should tread lightly and decides to plunge ahead, divulge the secret he hopes she already knows.  
  
"Weeks."  
  
"That they've been together?"  
  
"Yeah. How'd you find out?"  
  
"My amazing powers of deduction and the expression on your face. How'd you find out?"  
  
"His own admission."   
  
"And you didn't say anything to me."  
  
"I barely know you."  
  
"I wouldn't have taken you for a guy who dances on the grave of chivalry."  
  
"You barely know me."  
  
"I know you well enough."  
  
"I was hoping it was a one-time thing."  
  
"And it wasn't."  
  
"No."  
  
"At work?"  
  
"Mostly."  
  
"Anyone else know?"  
  
"I don't think so."  
  
"Good."  
  
"What did you come here for?"  
  
"To find out if I was right."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Okay."  
  
She leaves him, after thoroughly derailing his train of thought. He can't work now. He closes the laptop and considers just how much he hates her, how much he hates Josh, too. Is it quantifiable?   
  
He wonders if she was more upset about Donna than she is about him.   
  
At 2:45, he decides that he hates this entire charade, which is, by the way, completely unprofessonal. He's about to face the blank page again when the door opens. Perhaps she killed his secretary.  
  
"I don't care," she announces.  
  
"Okay."  
  
"About you."  
  
"You care about her."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I can't compete with you."  
  
"You can compete with her?"  
  
"Oh, Sam," she says. "That was low."  
  
"That's not how I meant it."  
  
"Sure."  
  
"Seriously."  
  
"Yes, I can compete with her. I don't choose to do that, however."  
  
"Good."  
  
"I'm going to bow out gracefully," she says. "After kicking his ass."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"What about you?"  
  
"I'm staying put."  
  
"You don't see something wrong with this arrangement?"  
  
"I see the consequences of complaining."  
  
"I would hate me."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"And him."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"And her."  
  
"Right."  
  
"You're a great actor, Sam."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"I'm sorry I didn't figure it out sooner."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"I'm going to leave now."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"See you around."  
  
When he thinks of it later, he can't account for the next thirty seconds. Lost time. An out-of-body experience, perhaps. But somehow she's no longer departing but nearer than she's ever been.   
  
He wonders if she's trying to find out why he's the one with whom she can't compete. He wonders if he's trying to find out why he's the dark secret and she's the party doll.   
  
She leaves with bruised lips and he's left with the taste of her expensive lipstick in his mouth.  
  
He wonders if she got her answer.  
  
It's 5:45 when she comes back. He's gotten a few more sentences written by then, bringing the afternoon's word count up to 75.  
  
"I'm sorry," she says.  
  
"No, I am."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"He doesn't have to know," he promises.  
  
"I don't care about that."  
  
"Okay."  
  
They don't go any further than making out like teenagers. Well, maybe like teenagers who are really pissed off at each other, he supposes. She probably wants to believe she's superior, morally, to those who have betrayed her. After some time passes, she withdraws, retracts, disentangles, stands back. "It's Tuesday," she non-sequiturs.  
  
"The 21st."  
  
"I'm going home."  
  
"Okay."  
  
She buttons her shirt. "Can't miss Buffy."  
  
He laughs. Is she joking?  
  
"Are you making fun of me?" She isn't.  
  
"No."  
  
"You are."  
  
"What are you going to do about it?" He doesn't know where that came from. What, is he flirting now?  
  
She says, "Why don't you invite me over?"  
  
He considers his options.  
  
When Josh comes by the office later, the light is off and the door is locked. He's surprised to find his apartment in the same state. The connection is not made in his mind. He goes to bed alone.


End file.
